


Would you...?

by green_violin_bow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotions, Epistolary, First Date, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Moral Dilemmas, Mutual Masturbation, Myc and Greg getting everything in the wrong order on their first date, Phone Sex, Such as: would you fuck a clone of yourself?, Terrible shark movies, That Pesky Sentiment Business, background Johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 21:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13349655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: Agonising over the foremost moral dilemma of our times leads to a conversation, which leads to a date, which leads to texting. Together, Mycroft and Greg consider some crucially important questions (would you fuck your clone? and who WOULD win in a fight between a shark and a tiger?), and accidentally answer some more minor queries about life, love, and sex.





	Would you...?

Mycroft steps into the kitchen to refill his glass of wine, carrying Rosie’s beaker with him. The little girl is getting tired. They should do Sherlock’s birthday cake soon so that she can go to bed.

John and Lestrade are just opening another couple of beers.

“Well why not?” says John with quiet amusement. “It’s just like you’re on your own, really, isn’t it.”

“Um, not really,” snorts Lestrade. “That’s sort of the point. Ugh. Nope. Too creepy for me.”

Back turned, Mycroft pours the wine.

“Oh come on,” snorts John. “Aren’t you even a bit curious?”

"Well, yeah, but that’s worse, isn’t it?” the Detective Inspector’s voice is full of laughter. He sounds more relaxed than Mycroft has ever heard him. Perhaps it is just the fact of being off the clock – or perhaps the several beers that he and Dr Watson have drunk already. “Constantly…marking yourself. Judging from every angle. Urgh.” He takes a swig of beer.

“Christ, Greg, you need to work on your self-esteem mate.” John laughs; from the sound of it, Greg has punched him in the arm. “Anyway,” he adds. “Perfect way to have a threesome. No cheating involved.”

“If I need to work on my self-esteem, _you_ need to work on your ego,” snorts Greg. “I’d much rather be with someone else, thanks.”

“Yeah, _everyone_ ’d rather be with someone else,” says John, as though explaining something very simple to an idiot. “But that’s the _point._ It’s a dilemma. You have to choose, yes or no.”

“I already said!” laughs Greg. “No. _God,_ no. You just want me to say yes, now, so you don’t feel like such a sicko.”

Mycroft fills Rosie’s beaker with more squash at the sink and picks up his wine, turning to go back to the living room.

“What about you, Mycroft?” asks Lestrade, grinning.

“I beg your pardon, Detective Inspector?” asks Mycroft, stopping next to the kitchen table.

“If you had the chance, would you fuck a clone of yourself?”

John snorts beer back into the bottle.

Mycroft blinks, several times.

Detective Inspector Lestrade’s eyes are wide and dark and innocent.

“What’s going on?” asks Sherlock, suddenly in the kitchen, hand on the back of John’s neck.

“Greg’s just finding out whether Mycroft would fuck his own clone or not.”

Sherlock makes a retching noise designed to convey the most theatrical parody of disgust he can achieve.

It feels like – it feels like _school._

Mycroft places both drinks on the table, and, face blank, lifts his coat from the hook on the way out.

*

“Shit,” says Greg, succinctly.

“What did you expect?” asks Sherlock. “Mycroft is basically repression manifest in human form.”

“And here I thought that was you,” snaps Greg, trying to wrestle his coat from under Molly’s.

“Hardly,” mutters John.

“Well you didn’t exactly help, did you?” cries Greg, wrenching angrily at one arm of his coat, turned inside-out. “Snorting and – bloody – _heaving_ like a cast of clowns.”

“I have no desire to imagine two of my brother doing _anything,_ let alone engaging in coitus with one another –”

“‘Engaging in coitus’? Jesus, no wonder John wants a threesome with two of himself,” Greg throws out as he sets off down the stairs.

“Bastard!” shouts John after him. Greg smiles grimly, pulling the door of 221 open, and emerging onto Baker Street.

*

Amazingly, it doesn’t seem as though one of Mycroft’s big black cars was waiting for him. He is smoking under the awning of Speedy’s.

He averts his gaze and turns slightly away as Greg pulls the door to behind himself.

“Mycroft – Mr Holmes,” says Greg, becoming aware partway through the words that he’s more drunk than he’d thought. “Listen, I’m sorry – that was stupid, but I wasn’t trying to –”

“There is no need for this, Detective Inspector,” returns Mycroft, with icy composure.

“No, I – I think there is,” says Greg. “I wasn’t trying to – take the piss or anything. Just…y'know. Trying to involve you. Bit of fun.”

“I fail to see what possible 'fun’ I could wring out of discussing clone-fucking with my brother’s partner.”

Greg laughs, quietly, trying to ignore the silent bomb going off in his brain. _I just heard Mycroft Holmes say 'fucking’, and I wish I’d recorded it on my phone. Jesus Christ._ “Yeah, alright, sorry. But it’s just…silly stuff, y'know? Joining in. Having a laugh. Helps people feel like they…know you.” _D'you want to sound a bit more patronising to someone who’s probably forty times more intelligent than you, hmm? At least._

“Again. There are certain things – many, _many_ things – that I do not wish my brother’s partner to know about me.”

Greg grins. “Alright.” It’s definitely the alcohol that adds, “just tell me, then.”

Mycroft’s raised eyebrow really is a work of art.

“Well, some people think it’s horrific because they don’t want to see themselves…doing _that,_ and then there’re people who think it’s fine because it’s basically like…y'know…” _Fuck, don’t think about Mycroft Holmes wanking_ – _fuck. Too late._ Greg stares at Mycroft’s long, elegant fingers holding the cigarette, and draws his coat rather more closely around himself.

“I am afraid I fall squarely into the first category,” says Mycroft, blowing out a stream of smoke. “And I believe I heard your opinion on the subject upstairs. Has this given you the significant insight into my personality you had wished for?” his tone is dry, but Greg thinks he can detect the traces of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

“Nope,” says Greg, smiling. He takes a breath, and clears his throat. _What the fuck are you doing?_ screams his brain. “Come out with me, this week. I’ll ask you some more.”

Mycroft blinks silently for several moments longer than Greg is comfortable with. At last, he gives a wry twist of a smile. “What should I be required to decide upon fucking, this time?”

“Well, there’s a question,” says Greg. _Holy shit whatthefuckiswrongwithyou_ –

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth definitely twitch a little, this time. His cheeks and the tips of his ears have actually tinged with pink. “Very well,” he says, cautiously. He keeps his gaze lowered, watching the smouldering end of the cigarette by his side.

 _Fucking hell. Holy fucking hell._ “Are you coming back upstairs?” asks Greg.

Mycroft hesitates.

“Go on,” prompts Greg. He smiles. “There’ll be cake.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “My brother greatly exaggerates my love of cake, Detective Inspector.”

Greg laughs. “Come off it. Everyone loves cake. And anyway, my mobile’s up there. I want to find an evening that works for us both, but I need my calendar.”

Mycroft drops the cigarette butt to the pavement and grinds it delicately out. “Very well.”

Greg smiles and holds the front door open for him. “Alright then. Next burning question. Who would win in a fight between a shark and a tiger?”

*

Two nights later, Greg gets home from work, puts the kettle on, and feels his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He and Mycroft had arranged to go for dinner on Friday, and to be honest, he’s been expecting a cancellation text anytime in the next few evenings.

  — I have a number of queries about your original question, Detective Inspector. MH

Greg’s eyebrows rise.

  — My original question? G

  — Whether I would fuck my clone. MH

  — Oh yeah? G

  — I find the original question lacking in nuance. MH

Greg grins, and rolls his eyes.

  — You’re about to go all Holmes on this, aren’t you? G

  — I imagine it is an inescapable part of my nature. MH

  — Go on then… ;) G

  — Does the clone have all the same memories as I do? MH

  — …um, I don’t know, do clones normally?! G

  — Does it make a difference, anyway?! G

  — It is the difference between fucking someone who looks exactly like you but may have an entirely different personality, or fucking…yourself. MH

  — True. Um. Oh God, I don’t know what’s worse. I think they’re both worse. G

  — Yes. MH

  — You’re not changing your answer, are you? You’ve just made me think about it more and be more disgusted. G

  — Essentially. MH

Greg laughs.

  — I suppose a disgusting creepy question shared is a disgusting creepy question halved…? G

  — I fear not. Just…shared. MH

Greg snorts.

  — Looking forward to Friday. What do you think about the shark and the tiger? G

  — Again, the question lacks contextual nuance. Surely whichever animal is in its native element would have the winning advantage. MH

  — But tigers can swim quite well, whereas sharks can’t breathe at all on land. G

  — You favour the tiger, then? MH

  — Depends whether the shark is tactical. If it bit off the tiger's paws/claws first it would definitely win. G

  — Certainly on land, I do favour the tiger as victor. What would be the shark’s motivation to fight? It might as well conserve energy for attempting to return to the water. MH

  — Its motivation is…it’s being attacked by a tiger. G

  — A compelling argument, certainly. This exercise is distressing in view of the need to preserve rare species. MH

Greg laughs.

  — Yeah, I know what you mean. There’s always ‘Superman versus Batman’. G

  — Who and who? MH

  — Just so you know, I’m giving you a look, because I know you know who they are. G

  — On the contrary, I assure you. I am returning to a conference call. Until Friday. MH

  — See you then! G

Well. He certainly hadn’t expected to receive a volley of texts, plus a reconfirmation of their date on Friday. He cooks dinner, humming a tune.

*

His surprise is compounded the next day.

  — Having completed some background reading, I understand that Batman is merely a rich man with a bat phobia and a fast car. I believe I shall bet against him. MH

  — Can’t argue with you there. G

  — I fear we have failed to muster the required enthusiasm for this particular dilemma. MH

  — That’s alright. I think you need to be plastered and in a noisy pub really. G

  — Would you like me to make a reservation for dinner on Friday? MH

  — Actually I wondered if you wanted to come here? I can make something and we’ll watch a film. Got one I think you’ll enjoy. G

  — Perhaps we could use the screening room at my club? The food is excellent and it will be entirely private. MH

Greg frowns. It’s clear Mycroft doesn’t want to come over to his. He wonders why.

  — Sounds good. Sure you’ll be able to get the room? G

  — It will not be an issue. MH

  — Great. What time works? G

  — 20:00? MH

  — See you then. G

*

The food is, indeed, delicious – as is the wine. The conversation is easy, unforced; it has been for a long time, now. Their periodic meetings about Sherlock had gone on, even when the necessity to discuss Sherlock had ceased.

They just hadn’t talked about Sherlock.

“So’ve you got much travel this year?” asks Greg, as they carry their wine glasses and bottle down the wood-panelled corridor to the screening room. Mycroft’s frequent travel is the only thing that interrupts their roughly-monthly meet-ups.

“Two longer trips planned,” says Mycroft. “And the usual shorter ad-hoc ones.”

Greg nods, and exclaims as he looks around at the screening room. “Whoa, it’s a proper little cinema.”

Mycroft smiles. “Naturally.”

“Naturally,” echoes Greg, with a grin. Mycroft rolls his eyes.

There’s even a small bar at the back of the room, where Mycroft deposits their second bottle of wine, and their glasses. The fact that he has had a couple of glasses of red is evident in his slightly more relaxed posture as he perches on the edge of a barstool.

So far, nothing other than the more intimate setting has particularly marked this as a date. But now, as Greg glances up, he feels the other man’s gaze on him. He meets it boldly, watching the way Mycroft’s lips part slightly, how wide and full of both need and terror his grey eyes are.

Greg takes a half-step closer, almost between Mycroft’s parted knees. Slowly, waiting for permission or denial, Greg puts his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, and steps closer still. He is the same height as Mycroft, like this.

“Yeah?” he asks, softly.

Mycroft nods, once, eyes still very wide.

When their lips meet, Greg puts his hand to the side of Mycroft’s face, fingers stroking his neck, the pad of his thumb tracing along his cheekbone. He doesn’t pull away too quickly, because the first press of lips is almost unreturned; but after a moment, Mycroft makes a quiet noise in his throat, and moves very slightly closer.

Greg smiles against his lips, and kisses him again, longer and harder. He takes Mycroft’s bottom lip between his own, biting it with whisper pressure.

The catch of Mycroft’s breath is just audible, and makes Greg gasp. He pulls back, and smiles at Mycroft’s solemnity. “Hey,” he murmurs.

Mycroft looks rather unsure. “Hello.”

Greg nuzzles his forehead against Mycroft’s temple. “Glad to see we’ve got sofas to watch the film from.” He kisses Mycroft’s cheek. “Come and share a sofa with me.”

Mycroft crosses to the control panel area, boasting multiple video and film devices. “What are we watching?”

Greg pulls a DVD out of his jacket pocket with a grin. “A classic.”

“Oh good grief,” says Mycroft, taking the copy of _Mega Shark Versus Giant Octopus_ that Greg hands to him. “Gregory. You are appalling.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve seen it,” laughs Greg, winking at Mycroft as he saunters off to a sofa.

When Mycroft joins him, he is rather straight-backed and awkward, until Greg kneels up and kisses him again. “D’you know the best thing about watching a totally shit movie?” asks Greg, hand gentle on the line of Mycroft’s jaw.

“What is that?” asks Mycroft, attempting to keep his voice impassive.

“There’s no need to concentrate _at all.”_

*

  — Goodnight, gorgeous. G

  — Hardly, Detective Inspector. MH

  — Don’t you start that, Mycroft Holmes! Gorgeous it is, so there. G

  — You are an odd man, Gregory Lestrade. MH

  — Well you spent all evening kissing me, so you can’t think I’m that bad. G

  — Perhaps not all bad. MH

Greg collects a glass of water from the kitchen, and walks through into the bedroom. Putting his water down on the bedside table, he turns the lamp on and drops his phone on the bed, then pulls his jumper off. He starts to unbutton his shirt, slowly, remembering Mycroft’s lips seeking skin beneath his collar –

  — Getting ready for bed. You too? G

  — I am already in bed. MH

Greg drops his shirt on the floor and gives a wry grin as he starts to unbutton his trouser fly. He notices the careful wording they are both employing. He’s pretty sure neither of them is actually going to sleep just yet. He pushes both his trousers and boxers to the floor, and kicks them away. He’s still half-hard, edgy with need after so much build-up.

He is surprised to see the ‘typing’ notification beneath Mycroft’s last message. Greg watches it for half a minute. It stops and starts, but seemingly Mycroft cannot decide on what to send.

  — We’ll do that again soon, yeah? G

  — Yes. MH

The 'typing’ notification flickers on and off again a few more times, then seemingly settles to nothing. Greg knows that he should want the quiet; the time to deal with his insistent erection in peace. But…his senses are full of Mycroft, warm beneath him, hard against his thigh, breathing elevated far beyond its usual rate, hair mussed, lips red, voice rough with want –

  — I miss you already. G

The 'typing’ notification comes immediately, and Greg’s heart skips, knowing that he wasn’t the only one looking at their conversation, willing it to continue.

  — And I you. MH

Greg’s toes curl with happiness against the sheets. He doesn’t want this to end. His chest feels full and tight when he sees the ‘typing’ notification flicker up again. _Please say it,_ hopes Greg desperately. _Whatever you’re going to say. I want anything from you._

  — I wish you were here. MH

Greg blinks and takes a breath. The thought of _Mycroft_  typing _that_  is – well, until a week ago he would have found it unthinkable. Now it makes his heart lurch in his chest.

He’s not even sure if he wants to get off anymore. Well, he does _want_ to, but… _without him_ are the words silently repeating themselves inside his mind.

In the end, he tells the truth.

  — I wish I was there or you were here. Anywhere as long as I could still kiss you. G

  — If this evening has shown anything, it is that I am apparently amenable to that proposal. MH

  — You weren’t sure beforehand? :) G

  — It seems I had underestimated the aphrodisiac properties of the titanic struggle between shark and octopus. MH

Greg laughs, out loud.

  — Ha! Anything I should be concerned about in your past?! G

  — Perhaps in my future. MH

Greg laughs again. Is Mycroft lying there, just as hard, just as needy as him? _Why the fuck didn’t I invite him home with me? Why didn’t he ask me back? Why didn’t I just take him on that fucking sofa?_

  — I wish I had asked you to come here. G

‘Typing’ flickers on, and off again, several times before Mycroft decides on a reply. Greg’s heart pounds.

  — I confess I have been experiencing very similar regrets. MH

_‘Experiencing very similar regrets’. Posh bastard. Why does the way he talks make me want to fuck him slowly and then cuddle the silly bugger until morning?_

  — Why didn’t you say? G

There is a good deal of hesitation before Mycroft’s response appears.

  — I feared it might be somewhat ahead of schedule. MH

  — I did too. And now I feel like a fucking idiot. G

‘Typing’ flickers a few times, but nothing comes through, and it eventually settles to nothing. _Getting sleepy?_ wonders Greg. _Or otherwise engaged?_ The thought of Mycroft’s long, delicate fingers wrapped around his cock makes Greg’s breath catch and draw shallow. _Jesus Christ._

  — Can I say something really not ‘on schedule’? G

  —  Yes. MH

  — I really like you. And I think you’re gorgeous. Not just as a pet name. Sexy as hell. G

Greg tries to imagine Mycroft reading the message. He wouldn’t accept it, not at first – he’d frown at the screen of his phone, glance away, unsure how to respond to a compliment he doesn’t agree with –

  — I want to see you again as soon as possible. G

Mycroft’s answer is instant.

  — And I you. MH

Reluctantly, Greg types:

  — I should probably get some sleep. But we’ll sort out a date and time in the morning? G

  — Certainly. MH

Greg stares at the conversation on-screen. _Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go,_ he thinks stupidly. The ‘typing’ notification pops up again, and Greg’s heart thumps.

  — I fear I may find sleep elusive. MH

The response pops into Greg’s head, and he hesitates, cursor blinking at him expectantly. _Oh, God, really Greg?_ He takes a chance.

  — Do what I’m about to do and I’m pretty sure you’ll sleep well ;) G

The ‘Seen ✓✓’ notification appears, but Mycroft does not appear to be typing a response. Greg’s stomach clenches. _Shit, fuck_ –

  — You have just ensured that I shall have to. MH

Greg’s body goes limp with relief. _How did the sneaky bugger type that so fast? Didn’t even see a notification. Holy fuck, though._ This is beyond flirting, now, and on the verge of text sex. _Sexting? Dear God, ‘sexting’ at the age of fifty._

  — Wondering whether to get up and have a shower to be honest. G

‘Typing’ flickers a few times; there are a few moments of hesitation before whatever has been typed is sent.

  — You cannot take your phone in the shower. MH

Arousal shivers up Greg’s spine.

  — Want company? :) G

There is a burst of typing, and then a long hesitation before the message comes through at last.

  — I should find that most stimulating. Perhaps essential. MH

Greg’s heart squeezes even as his arousal deepens. He looks at those last words, ‘perhaps essential’. Mycroft is essentially telling him that he’s key to him getting off. _Fucking hell. Well there’s an ego boost._

  — I’m flattered. And nervous. G

  — I too. MH

  — As in, ‘haven’t done this in a while’, or as in ‘not sure I want to’? Because either is fine. No pressure. G

  — ‘Haven’t done this in a while’. MH

And then:

  — Ever. MH

Greg’s heart feels as though it will burst with tenderness for this brave, honest man. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling a little with suppressed tension and nerves.

  — Thank you for telling me. You’re the most erudite man I’ve ever met, though, so I doubt you’ll have trouble :) G

The ‘typing’ notification flickers up, stays on for a few seconds, stops; flickers again, and stops again. No message appears. Greg’s chest feels tight with anxiety. _Oh fuck, what’s he thinking?_

Greg can’t take it anymore. He swears, and presses ‘call’.

The phone rings several times, and Greg’s mind races; _he can just refuse the call, if he doesn’t want to, it’s okay, I just want to hear him_ –

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice is cautious. He is trying for his usual calm tone, and not quite finding it.

“Hey.” Greg squirms with awkwardness, turning on his side, drawing his knees up. “You okay?”

He had half-expected an impatient, Sherlock-style answer; instead, there is a moment of quiet, seemingly of consideration. “Yes,” says Mycroft, at last. “And you?”

Greg takes a breath. “I worried I’d – put you off. I don’t know. I just want you to know there’s – there’s no pressure, okay?”

“I –” Mycroft hesitates. “Thank you.” He sighs, slightly. “I fear I shall hardly be expert at this,” he says quickly, as if wanting to get the admission over with. “You complimented my erudition, but I am afraid it tends more to precision than to erotica,” he says, drily.

Greg laughs, surprised. He turns onto his back again, right hand flat on his stomach. “That’s alright,” he smiles. “You tell me very precisely what’s going on and I’m pretty sure I’ll find it sexy as hell.”

Mycroft makes a small noise of amusement, then pauses and clears his throat. “I –”

Greg’s heart swoops. _He doesn’t know how – or whether – to begin. Oh God, you gorgeous man._  “What are you wearing?” he asks, softly, cringing slightly at the cliche of a question, but trying not to let it show in his voice. He keeps his hand still on his stomach.

“Pyjama trousers,” says Mycroft, tentatively, as though he’s worried it might not be sexy enough.

“What colour? What material?” asks Greg, gently. “I thought you said you were going to be precise,” he says, with a hint of a tease.

He can hear the smile in Mycroft’s voice. “Navy brushed cotton.”

Greg can’t help it. “Always thought you’d be a silk pyjamas kind of man.”

“How much consideration have you given to my pyjamas, Detective Inspector?”

Greg laughs. “Yeah, well, as established, I think you’re sexy.”

Mycroft’s soft huff of amusement makes Greg smile in return. “Well, for your edification, Gregory, I cannot stand silk pyjamas. Far too hot, and an odd texture.”

Greg grins. “Good to know.” He curls his toes, consumed with fondness. “No top then?”

“No.”

Greg deliberately pitches his voice a little lower. “Are you hard?”

Mycroft’s breath catches. “Yes. Not fully, but yes.”

“Mmm,” murmurs Greg appreciatively. “I have been since earlier.” He takes a breath. “Which hand are you holding the phone with?”

“The left.”

“And where’s your right hand?”

Mycroft’s voice is full of amusement. “Next to my hip, under the duvet.”

Greg smiles, but controls it in his voice. “Run your fingers along the waistband of your trousers,” he murmurs. “Don’t touch your cock yet.”

Mycroft’s breathing changes, deepening and lengthening.

“Tell me what you can feel,” says Greg softly.

“The skin of my stomach. The cotton waistband,” says Mycroft, quietly. “I – am avoiding the –” he hesitates, “– the head.”

Greg pictures the head of Mycroft’s cock distorting the material of his pyjama bottoms, pushing above the level of the waistband. His mouth waters, and he shifts slightly against the sheets. His skin tingles with need and anticipation.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I’m not touching yet, either. My right hand’s on my stomach.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath. “What are you wearing?”

“Honestly?” asks Greg, with a smile. “Nothing. I had no doubts about what I’d be doing before going to sleep.” He laughs, and hears Mycroft’s quiet laugh too.

“Well, you were not incorrect,” says Mycroft, with breathless humour.

Greg smiles. “This is better.” He allows his own fingers to play across his stomach. “Will you  touch your cock for me now?” he asks. “Just through your pyjama bottoms.”

Mycroft’s voice is low as he answers, “yes.”

“Tell me,” says Greg.

“I – I am running my fingers from the head down the shaft,” murmurs Mycroft. “Lightly, through the fabric.”

“Mmm,” hums Greg, appreciatively. “Keep doing that. Do you like to touch your balls?”

There’s a half-moment of silence that makes Greg think _fuck, too far,_ but then Mycroft’s voice is breathy in his ear. “Yes.” He hesitates. “Nearer – the end, usually.”

Greg smiles. His cock throbs insistently, so close to his hand. He prolongs the tease. “Me too.” He grins. “Do you ever do this at work? Your own office…private bathroom –”

Mycroft’s laugh sounds rather shocked. “Never. Perhaps I shall now.” He sounds curious when he next speaks. “What made you ask that?”

“Always wondered.” Greg half-laughs as he says it.

“You appear to have wondered a number of things, Detective Inspector.”

Greg grins. “Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“Just – probably best to assume I’ve had the standard collection of filthy thoughts about you over the years.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and then Mycroft says, “I look forward to finding out what ‘standard’ is, Gregory.” His voice is full of surprise.

Greg answers the question that hadn’t been voiced. “It’s the suits,” he smiles. “And the snooty manner.”

“‘Snooty’ –” says Mycroft.

“Don’t you even dare try,” grins Greg.

Mycroft’s laugh is full, and makes Greg’s eyes close with pure delight.

“And when I am neither snooty nor suited?” asks Mycroft, and it’s said archly; but there is an edge of real vulnerability that makes Greg’s heart squeeze.

“Then you’re just a person I enjoy talking to,” he says, gently. “And watching stupid movies with. And kissing.”

There is a long moment of silence at the other end of the line. Greg, recognising a Holmes ‘need a minute to take that in’ moment happening, stays quiet. _He doesn’t know what to say now,_ he thinks.

“I can’t stop thinking about earlier,” he murmurs. “I need to kiss your neck more. And actually get your shirt off. I want your skin. As much of it as I’m allowed.”

Mycroft takes a hurried breath in. “And I yours.” He hesitates. “Gregory, I – I need more –”

“Mmm,” hums Greg. “I know, gorgeous. You ready to take your pyjama bottoms off?”

“Yes,” gasps Mycroft.

“Lift your hips and push them down, then,” says Greg, keeping his voice controlled and deep. “Not all the way – just around your thighs.” He hesitates, but then goes on. “I like thinking of you like that, like you’ve pushed them down as fast as you can, like you can’t wait to get your hands on your cock.”

Mycroft gasps, and there is a tiny moan in the back of his throat. “Gregory –” he laughs a little, half-embarrassed, flustered. “I _can’t_  wait.”

Greg grins. “Perfect. Wrap those gorgeous long fingers round your cock, then.”

“My fingers?” asks Mycroft, with an edge of amusement.

“Oh, _God_ yes,” grins Greg. “Now do as you’re told.”

Mycroft laughs, but he gives a slight hiss of arousal and need as he takes hold of his cock.

“Tell me what you usually do,” murmurs Greg. “With precision,” he adds, with a smile.

He can almost hear Mycroft’s eye-roll. “I –” he says, breathlessly, “begin by taking hold of the base, and stroke slowly up the shaft –”

Greg can hear the strain in Mycroft’s voice, arousal and desperation warring with embarrassment and hesitation. His cock throbs.

“Mmm,” he hums. “God, Mycroft, it’s taking everything I have not to touch myself right now.”

“Why don’t you?” asks Mycroft, silkily.

Greg smiles. “Because I want to focus on you for a minute,” he murmurs. “Because I’m _really_ turned on, and I can’t trust myself to listen to you properly if I start thinking about me.”

“You enjoy being teased,” says Mycroft, as if he’s learnt something.

“Oh, wonderful, mid-sex deductions,” says Greg, mock-exasperatedly.

“Surely not a bad thing, Detective Inspector.”

“To a point. If it gets Freudian, I’m ringing off.”

Mycroft’s laugh is rather breathless. “Agreed.”

“Have you still got the duvet over you?” asks Greg, eyes closed. He runs the fingertips of his right hand down his inner thigh.

“I pushed it down some time ago,” murmurs Mycroft. “Too warm.”

“Tell me how you feel.”

“I –” Mycroft’s breath catches, “– want to speed up my actions, but am attempting to remain in control.”

“You always seem perfectly in control, gorgeous,” teases Greg.

“Always?” asks Mycroft, softly.

Greg smiles. “Maybe not earlier,” he says. “And you have no idea what that does to me.”

“Perhaps some idea.” Mycroft’s voice is deeper than usual. “Gregory. I wish you to touch yourself.”

Greg shivers slightly, arousal curling down his spine and in the pit of his stomach. “Well, if you insist,” he murmurs.

Mycroft’s smile is evident in his voice. “I do. Tell me what you are doing.”

“I’m so hard, because of you,” Greg murmurs. “Because of earlier, and listening to you now –” he groans as he runs his fingertips slowly down the length of his cock. “I’m just touching – gently – only the tips of my fingers.”

“Where?”

“Just – the base and shaft –” he takes a breath. “Head would be –”

“Too much,” finishes Mycroft, softly. “Yes.”

“Mmm,” moans Greg. “Can I –”

“Do you want to push into your fist, Gregory?” asks Mycroft, and he’s obviously enjoying this new, silky, teasing role. “I am.”

“Oh –” Greg groans as he wraps his hand around his cock. “Yes. Yes, perfect. Tell me what you’re doing –”

“My hand is moving slowly up and down my shaft,” murmurs Mycroft. “Just short of the head each time. I want to push up, put my feet on the mattress and fuck my fist –”

 _“Fuck,”_  moans Greg. “You should know that you swearing is probably what’s going to make me come.”

Mycroft purrs a laugh. “You like the idea of me, prim and proper, waiting to be ruined,” he whispers.

Greg’s laugh is raw and dirty. “I like you more like this,” he says, truthfully. He grips his cock harder, increases the pace of his strokes, an instinctive search for friction, for satisfaction. “I need to stop,” he moans. “I can’t –”

“Gregory,” pants Mycroft, and Greg has never heard him like this; wrecked, desperate. It’s a plea, a need for something more.

“If I was there, what would I be doing?” he asks, voice rough.

Mycroft tries to suppress a groan. “I want – I want everything,” he murmurs. “Your fingers – inside me –”

Greg hums with pleasure, and takes his hand off his cock for a moment, trying to breathe, to concentrate. “I’ve always wanted to watch you finger yourself open, gorgeous,” he breathes, rough and low in Mycroft’s ear. “Those fingers of yours are made for it, I bet.”

The strangled noise Mycroft makes could be a laugh or a sob. His frantic strokes to his cock are evident in the rhythm of his breathing, in the distant sound of skin on skin. Greg can’t help taking himself in hand again, matching his pace to Mycroft’s.

“And then, darlin’, what then?” asks Greg. “Do you want me to finger you while I suck you off? Or do you want me to bend you over the bed and fuck you?”

“Oh, _God,”_  moans Mycroft, deeply, gutturally. “Gregory – oh, Gregory –” and Greg hears the moment where his control and his voice break, whispering _“fuck, fuck, fuck,”_  again and again, an intimate wave of desperation in Greg’s ear.

And that’s too much, suddenly, his hand tight around his cock, working at the head with short, tight pulls that leave him gasping, every muscle and nerve in his body wound to breaking point, and Mycroft groans his name one more time, voice ragged and broken and there – _oh fuck_  – there –

“Mycroft – oh, so gorgeous – _fuck,_  your voice, you sound perfect –”

He loses it all, for a moment, the ability to speak, to share the shimmering pleasure in which he floats, he listens, drifts on a tide of Mycroft’s breaths, intimate in his ear, an ocean shell where – if you listen hard enough – you hear Neptune sing. _What was it Sherlock said once? Jupiter descending?_

When he comes to himself, at last, his chest and his hand are covered in come. Mycroft’s breathing is quiet in his ear. Peace runs through him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, lazily.

“Hello,” says Mycroft, and he sounds unsure again.

“Are you okay?” asks Greg. “Was that okay?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft, a little cautiously. “And for you?”

Greg smiles, and can’t help chuckling a little. “Incredible.” He moves the phone against his ear, tries to listen for clues to Mycroft’s state of mind. The caution in his voice is worrying. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s manner is – well, not clipped, but not exactly the post-coital bliss that is curling through Greg.

Greg sits up, and bends to the floor to pick up his boxers. He uses them to wipe his hand and chest, throws them to the bottom of the bed, then tips his head to the side, listening to the worrying quiet from his phone.

“Do you still have a 24-hour driver?” he asks.

Mycroft’s voice is enquiring. “Yes?”

“Listen, can I – can I do something _massively_  off-schedule?”

Mycroft can’t hide the slight amusement in his voice as he repeats, “yes.”

“Come here,” says Greg, running his hand through his hair. “This is ridiculous, and we’ve done everything in the wrong order, but just…come here. I want you here.”

Mycroft is silent for a moment. Greg can’t even hear breathing.

“You will have to come here,” he says, at last. “If you can. Security. I can send the car.”

“Yes.” It’s so simple, and Greg’s heart leaps with the thought of being close to Mycroft, of spending the night with him after everything they’ve just done. Of waking up with him. “When will it be here?”

“Twenty-five minutes.”

“Right. I’ll just –” he gestures, smiling madly. “Y’know, shower, get a few bits together. I’ll text you when I’m in the car.”

“Very well.” Mycroft’s voice is full of a smile, too. “I – shall see you soon.”

*

When Mycroft opens the door of his flat, he is wearing chinos and a soft cashmere jumper, with no shirt underneath.

Greg could almost whimper, looking at him. _Ready access to so much skin._  Only when the security man has gone, and Mycroft shuts the door, does Greg step in close.

Mycroft’s grey eyes are piercing, watching Greg’s every movement.

Greg slips his arms around Mycroft’s waist and pushes him gently against the wall, buries his nose in the juncture between neck and shoulder, inhales deeply and squeezes him tight. “Mmm,” he hums, appreciatively.

When Greg pulls back, Mycroft’s dark eyes are bright. He puts one long hand tentatively on Greg’s cheek, and kisses him softly. When he pulls back, his eyebrows pull slightly together, a _yes? May I?_

“Please,” murmurs Greg, and they kiss harder, deeper.

Finally, when they pull away and look at one another, Greg smiles. “Bed,” he says decidedly. “I – just need a cuddle, alright?”

“Alright,” echoes Mycroft, with an amused little nod.

Neither of them seems able to let go of the other.

So they don’t.


End file.
